Of Blood & Chocolate: Hunter or Gatherer
by Screaming Muted
Summary: There is this crackling energy in the air, and I've been feeling sick. It's been like this for weeks – ever since that strange crackling energy that's in the air appeared. I can only guess that they're thinking, "Oh, must be another Stiles thing." And brushed it off to continue their… investigation of the source of this… energy-thingy.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: **I so need a beta reader. **Anyways, this fic here has random references of a bunch of things that I don't remember (I think so, anyway), and I should also tell you right now that the title, _Of Blood & Chocolate: Hunter of Gatherer_, will make sense eventually if it doesn't already. Though I must say, I have never _really_ written anything for a character that has the same diagnose as I do before, and I'm actually wondering why the fuck I haven't. Oh well. Hopefully this just means I can do Stiles justice – if not, well. Shit luck, then. (FYI, I don't even know where I'm starting off at or what I'm even writing, so please just tell me in a review or message of what I was wrong with or whatever it is I'm taking the wrong way and whatnot. I apologize about any improper grammar or spelling that you may see, by the way. It may be my first language, but even so, I'm not all that great at it.) Happy New Years, people!

**Warning** / **Trigger**(?): Timeline What Timeline; Plot What Plot; messing of Timelines; there really is no real plot; messing of Mythology; Scenting; Werewolves Being Werewolves; BLOOD; btw since Stiles has been stated to be bisexual he'll be experimenting somewhat later on in this fic but no real relationship because he's paranoid; most likely stupid, Gary-Sue/Mary-Sue OCs; OOC Characters; random references of random anime/manga/video games/books; random teen angst that makes things more dramatic than need be; self-torment/self-bullying; possible future dob-con; pathetic grammar, spelling; etc. If I don't update this in a few weeks, you're free to take it. Just tell me so I can read it~

* * *

**Of ****Blood**** & ****Chocolate**: **Hunter or Gatherer**

* * *

There is this crackling energy in the air.

It has been there for weeks now, and by now, even regular mortals can sense it, even if only subconsciously. However, because of this, for me my hands and feet feel clammy and cold to the point I have to constantly flex them or just do something with them. I '_hear_' this muffled ringing – like the one that would appear when everything is completely silent – that causes these headaches that make my eyes water and I'd have to rapidly blink to get rid of it, but that's only so good for a couple of minutes. I feel feverish, like I'm bubbling underneath my skin that's not my hands and-or feet and those layers and layers of skins are the only thing keeping me together, but the thermometer tells me my temperature is normal – _not_ at all what I actually feel like. My nostrils feel as though they are clogged, but there's nothing. Then there's – oh. I forget what else but it'll come to me eventually. I believe so anyway. And no one has fucking noticed **but my father** and _that's_ a given. Because, y'know, he is… well, Dad. And he is the Sheriff. It's his job – both of them – to notice and know these things.

It's been like this for weeks – ever since that strange crackling energy that's in the air appeared. I can only guess that they're thinking, _"Oh, must be another Stiles thing."_ And brushed it off to continue their… investigation of the source of this… energy-thingy.

However, you know who else should have been a **given**? Who else should have noticed along with Dad? Scott fucking McCall. But does he? **No**. Then again, I can't blame him, even if I _wanted_ to. I mean, what-with Allison deciding to go out with Isaac, who Scott became rather close to, and choosing to ignore the relationship she had with Scott. I don't really get it – but then again, I _never had a romantic relationship_. The close I get to that is my bromance with Scott, but that ship sailed straight into a whirlpool and still sinking a never-ending pool of angst and trust issues. Yeah. I can't even guess – oh, maybe it's like a friendship with benefits, just with strings attached?

… Nah, that can't be it.

ANYWAYS – about that energy-thingy that's been around for a while now; the Pack cannot find out the source, and they won't let me help because … I really don't know why, now that I think about it. They sort of avoid direct contact with me – oh God, oh God, oh God; is this thing after **ME**? This energy did show up when I started feeling … weird. Strange. _"More so than usual,"_ according to my Dad when he first confronted me about my shudders – oh, that's what I forgot, oops – HOW DID I NOT FIGURE THIS OUT SOONER? They must be avoiding me because they think they're the cause! That must it!

(A joyous feeling erupted in his chest – it literally felt as though his heart was warming his entire body, and it was starting to feel normal again – and yet, and yet, and yet …)

**Then why aren't they back, since the symptoms are still happening and worsening?**

(He shudders and flexes his hands and toes. The cold, prickling, numb sensation is back, all over, again.)

_Perhaps they are simply wary – and far too much preoccupied with finding the source to actually pay attention to you?_

(The cold numbing sensation grew worse. He began to cough.)

**Don't be fooled; they simply don't care. Or else they would have been here by now, face to face – not through texts they send you here and there.**

(And after each cough, they became rougher – _drier_ – and then he started having colic, worse than any he's had before. His eyes water with the salty tears that he tries rapidly blinking them away.)

_You know they do. YOU ARE PACK. They are simply far too involved in the safety net Derek had created for himself, and later on the others, to __SEE__ beyond it without you pointing it out._

(Blood stains the toilet bowl and cold bathroom titles, and he coughs more out. The tears ran freely and sweat drip down his heated forehead and temple.)

"**Wh**_at_ **i**_s_ **th**_is_**!**_?_" I croak out after being able to stop coughing long enough to breath – oh sweet baby cheese and jumping jacks, why am I coughing blood! What is wrong with me!?

I couldn't really question anymore because someone knocked on my door – "Stiles? What's wrong, are you okay?"

Yep, it's my dad. Unfortunately, or fortunately, for me, I couldn't really tell him anything or otherwise because I started basically _coughing again_, which might I add, my favourite sweatpants started to soak up. Either way, he came in when I didn't answer and witness me basically vomiting blood on the floor with each cough and dry heaving when I tried to breath which only caused me to gag on the blood caught in my extremely sore throat.

"Oh God," my Dad mutters, his eyes wide with shock and horror, and just _standing there._ "Stiles!" he exclaim as he finally moves his ass to help me. "Oh God, son, what's wrong?"

If I could actually talk right now, I'm pretty sure he'd be rather disappointed in my answer. Either way, he backs off on anymore questions because he then remembers we have a phone that he could use to phone the hospital to get an ambulance, because I'm sure as hell can't walk right now, even with my Dad's help. Knowing me, we'd both probably fall down the stairs and hit our heads hard enough to render us unconscious … yeah, I'm not moving.

* * *

By the time they showed up, I was pretty close to just passing out from the blood loss and the fever certainly didn't help me feel any better – oh right, you weren't there for that. Yeah, I got a fever a little after my Dad was able to calm me down from the panic attack I started having, just a little after he left to go phone the ambulance, and after that my coughs slowly stopped. However, I gained a fever that just kept rising up and up until I just started to sweat like a pig. – As it kept steady.

My Dad was still there – is **still** there; he's sleeping in the chair that hospitals have be the beds for family members and friends – for the entire time, I remember that much even though I was out of it for most of the night. Actually, I'm still out of it. I just can't shut up about anything right now, but the doctors (though mostly the nurses) told me that was normal after I just went through. Oh! Speaking of doctors (nurses), Melissa – y'know, Scott's mom – Told my Dad and I (though mostly to my Dad, since they obviously thought I was asleep) that they still haven't figured out why I was coughing out so much blood, but I didn't really think they would since it's only been eighteen hours since I've been admitted and all. I thought of Googling any of my symptoms whenever I get my hands on my laptop, but I thought better of it. I'm pretty sure doing that will just convince me I'm _dying_ instead of help me. Then again, if this is a supernatural thing, there's probably nothing to stop it at all.

'Hmm … I'd really like a cheeseburger right about now.' With that thought in mind now, I think of all the food I'd kill to have right about now.

I'm not entirely sure how I've been like that, but I was _not_ startled when I heard a voice come from the door. "Really, Stiles? You're thinking of curly fries and a mushroom melt?"

Jumping, arms and legs flailing in the air, I swirl my head towards the door – and I pay for it as a nauseating sense of pain enveloped me but I ignored it in favor of greeting my oldest friend. "Scott! Dude! _Not_ cool!" (Okay, so I was. Sue me.)

Laughing, he walks fully into the room from the open doorway – what's up with that? – And plops down into the sit that previously occupied by my dad – "What the Hell?" I mumble, brows frowned – "He left while you were busy wondering about who you were willing to kill for extra large curly fries." If Scott's grin didn't dwindle soon, I'mma go blind. "Your Dad is out talking with the Doctors." Now his brows go down and his grin slipped closed. "He's asking about what's wrong and what could be the caused of you to cough up so much blood; and why your fever didn't break until four hours after they gave you an IV." Scott stares at me with a hard look, brown eyes squinting.

I could only really stare at him thinking, 'I want that grin back now.'

After a few moments of me not saying anything, Scott speaks up. "Stiles … how long have you been feeling like this … this sick?"

Surprised at this question, I couldn't help but stare at him incredulously, "What?" I asked.

He's been having some lesson with Derek or something, because his stare just became so much more intense. "How long have you been like this, Stiles."

A chill went down my spine, "Since it appeared." And here I was hoping for otherwise. I couldn't help but feel this bitter sense of – I quickly squashed that feeling away to continue the staring contest that seems to have emerged from nowhere.

I watched, as Scott appears to be thinking on my answer before realization spreads across his face. "_What?_ Stiles, that was three weeks ago!" my best friend exclaimed incredulously, staring at me in shock and … something else I'm too out of it to really read.

'And you didn't notice because you and the rest of the pack were too busy ignoring me to pay me a visit,' I thought sullenly. Guess all hope I was hoping for what I knew wasn't needed truly was for naught after all. "Yeah, well, I was hoping for you guys to find out what the source of it was and take it out or something."

Scott sighs quietly, before rubbing his face with his hands roughly. "We … believe we found what it is, but we weren't sure for certain." He sighs, "At least, we weren't until my mom informed me that you were admitted to the hospital sometime last night; we're pretty sure now."

I sit up, "Yeah?"

Scott looks at me with a searching gaze, "At first we thought it was just a creature going through maturity, we were half right. Peter told us what it actually was, and we had him go search for another one, a kin, to help out the… the Demigod. And uh, when we explained what was happening to you because of this – the Demigod we sent Peter to get told us the Demigod here is going through a… it's really lame name for it, but… the Demigod here is going through what they call it, a 'Coming of Age.'"

"Demigod?" I question, staring at him. Scott nods. "As in like, the children between a mortal and a _god_?" He nods again. "How – why the Hell is there a Demigod here, of all places?" I inquire. Because, frankly, why would a god have a child in a place like Beacon Hills and not New York, or some place like that? Seriously. Wouldn't a place bustling with a bunch of people be a safer place than a small place like this, if a Demigod coming into age sends this kind of signals and affect regular humans like me like this? Seriously, what the Hell!

Scott clears his throat loudly, causing me to sputter out curses at him when I cringe in pain because I jolted up into a sitting position once more – when did I lie down? – and switch the staring contest with me to the floor when I look at him. I figured he was trying to hide a grin – the sadist! – when I noticed his griping his left hand in a tight grip with his right, "Yeah," He starts, "Yeah, you're correct – you really know your myth stuff huh?"

I huff, "Well, I searched up on a different bunch of stuff when I learned you were an actual werewolf." But then a question buggered me, "What is a 'Coming of Age' for a Demigod anyway? I didn't come across anything like this when I was searching these kinds of things. _Besides_ the static in the air that is making me sick to my knees, I mean."

Scott lets out a laugh that sounded strangled. "Yeah, well, um." He clears his throat, "It, huh. It turns out that, um."

I get an uneasy feeling in my chest as I continue to watch my werewolf best friend stumble with his words, "It turns out that I'm _what?_"

He bites his lip, a sure sign I'm not going to like what I'm about to hear.

"You … you might the Demigod, Stiles."

* * *

_"You … you might be the Demigod, Stiles."_

Scott paused for a moment before continuing when I didn't interrupt, "Well, you **are**. It's just… a bit hard to process for me at the moment."

Yeah, if there's one thing I'd never want to hear, of why I'm even in a hospital garb that patients have to wear – why do they even have patients wearing these things? They are so cold; seriously, there is a cold draft in places I'd rather not be bothered – with an IV drip taped to my hand, it'd be that I'm a Demigod. That would mean that one of my parents isn't really my parent, right? Or they both are but … _what kind_ of Demigod am I, even? Greek? Norse? Roman? _Egyptian_? But something else was bothering me. "Why am I like this then? In all the stories I've read so far – there is no mention of Demigods having to go through this." No mention at all.

Scott bites his lip, again, "That's the thing … they, the Demigods, don't want anyone – or anything – knowing about this; the Coming of Age, I mean, because this is … this is the only chance for anyone – or any**thing** – to…"

" …'_To_'?" I press.

Scott swallows audibly, "This is the only chance for anyone – or anything – to take a Demigod's heart for themselves to become part god."

I sputter, "What?"

"You see, Stiles, we … are doing everything we can to make sure that Beacon Hills is safe for you – to keep anything that was attracted to the signals you've been sending out, obviously without your consent, however, when we connected it to you … you were slowly becoming a danger to yourself; you're body was trying to rejecting the part of you that was only waking." Scott paused for a moment to take a breather to make sure I was still awake. "So we sent out Peter to look for a someone like you to help us out – it took a while, but he was finally able to convince someone to come sometime last night … though only because we phoned while he was talking to him that you had been admitted to the hospital."

As if on cue, the door opens and reveals an unfamiliar face. "Hello, I take you are Stiles?" I blink at Scott, and when I receive a nod, I utter a confirmation. "Well, Hello, Stiles – can I call you that?" I nod, not wanting to be called by my first name. "My name is Jason Quince," new face is named Jason from there on, "I am your half-brother, on our father's side."

… Huh?

"Wha–" words stumble out with no real meaning, before I seemingly rebooted. "No, there's has to be a mistake; my father–"

Jason nods, "Yes, he earned the right and title of being your father, but I'm not talking about the man who raised you as his own with the knowledge that you really weren't; I'm talking about the one who walked away from your mother after he impregnated her." With a shuddering intake of breath, I nod for him to continue. "I'm talking about the one who stayed with **my** mother just to walk away four years later, simply because he got bored with the family thing he had going."

Here, Jason places his hand on my right forearm, in a gesture for comfort or whatever I'm not sure, but I squeeze Scott's hand when he places his hand on my left – and he squeezes right back. "Who…" I clear my throat to be rid of the frog that found its place in there for whatever reason, "Who is…" I couldn't continue. This was a lot to take in, but I would not accept another – mortal or no – to be my father. I already have one, and I glad to have him.

Luckily though, Jason seemed to have realized what was wrong or what I was trying to ask, and what he replied with was someone I never would have thought as my biological father. "He is an extremely powerful being, Stiles, whether the other beings know it or not. He is, however, also a fickle one, because although he cares nothing for the well-being of the mortals – almost heartless to the ones that he beds – and he cares not for the ones that he could almost call 'relatives', he does care for his offspring. He only ever leaves them with a mortal he believes can give his offspring's amazing care, if not love. This I believe, because I've had for four years – and I later on met him again when I was about to die. Die from the very thing you're going through right now; the Coming of Age. However, that's another subject we'll get to later, you want to know we our father is, obviously."

I bit my bottom lip nervously, but I want to know _who…_.

Jason took a deep breath and looks straight into my eyes. "Stiles, our father is–"


	2. Chapter 2

Yeah, written in third-person for this chapter, and will be until I reach the time where Stiles had his body-rejecting-himself in the last chapter, because. Yeah.

* * *

| **A FEW WEEKS PREVIOUS**… |

He woke up at a time he is unable to tell you as had he stared outside his window where the sky was completely gray with possible rain clouds unseeingly, not truly registering anything for about five or ten minutes other then that he is awake, however, when he blinked and shook his head a bit as he sat up on his bed he wondered absently if it was going to rain later on because the clouds in the sky completely covered the sun made the morning rather gloomily.

When he finished dressing he went downstairs only to raise a brow at the lack of coffee brewing in the kitchen when he neared the living room, before simply shrugging, hips swaying side to side without his notice as he hummed a song he probably picked up from the radio.

"What should I eat this morning?" He mumbled to himself as he went over to the fridge and opened it to peer in curiously, even though he knows what it contains, and wrinkled his nose when there wasn't anything he really wanted when he that everything that he had seen last night were still in place they were before and nothing new. Not that he really expected anything new. Sighing, Stiles grabbed the bulky block of cheddar cheese from the upper shelf and the carton of white, extra-large eggs whilst snatching the flimsy, thin plastic bags from the bottom drawers. One held fresh red and green peppers and the other equally fresh mushrooms.

He's going to prepare himself a rather delicious, if rather simple, omelet.

Hands full, he closes the refrigerator door with his right foot and turned around towards the counter near the stove. He glances at the time and blinks at the green digital numbers that the clock tells him.

_10:22 AM_

"Huh," Stiles uttered out. "Thank god it's the weekend, damn."

Then he continues preparing his breakfast as if nothing happened, once again humming to a tune and swaying his hips to it unknowingly, right foot tapping. After he's done cutting up the peppers and mushrooms, he dumps them into the bowl he had whisked the eggs in, and goes on a search hunt for the cheese grater. It takes a few moments, maybe five minutes, before he lets out a triumph laugh ("AH-HAH! Can't defeat the Awesome Stiles, you foul cheese grater!") And then proceeds to demolish a great portion of the cheese into the bowl; after doing so, he whisked it all together before frying it.

Needlessly to say, he had a very nice breakfast that morning, despite the cloudy and sunless morning so far.

* * *

It's about two-thirteen in the afternoon when Stiles collapses onto his bed face first, as there's nothing to do; no best friend to bother, and no best friend to bother him. That and because he has a **_splitting_** headache that just would not leave while was busy playing an old game that he discovered buried within his closet, Final Fantasy XII, and had to backtrack to the village when it started even though he tried his best to ignore it and just kill the gigantic dinosaur-thing he has to defeat in hopes to level up his peeps, specifically Penolo as she's the weakest out of all them before venturing out gods-know-where.

(He forgot but he refuses to admit that he skipped/ignored the dialogue; but back to the plot,) Stiles groaned as he wiggled around until he was in a blanket cocoon, shivering either though he was quite warm.

'What's wrong with me?' was his last conscious thought before he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

He wasn't even aware he was even in the slightest bit tired.

When he woke up the very next day, the headache hadn't disappeared; if anything, it had only became much more potent.

He had slept through the entire night and the majority of the morning as he had woke up at eleven minutes till noon.


End file.
